


A Flicker of Celluloid

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [18]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Arthur's Dad - Freeform, Established Relationship, Estranged Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Break Up, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-12 23:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11747373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Eames waits for Arthur. He'll wait for as long as it takes. But it isn't easy.And, so, here he has stayed in New York, caught in a new form of limbo while his longing for, and resentment towards, Arthur grows exponentially with every endless hour.





	1. You're Just What I Projected

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after _Close Your Eyes_ and _Hunting Ground_. It will skip back and forth over several months. Hope it's not confusing.

August

New York, USA

 

Eames doesn’t think of himself as a proponent of monogamy. He respects fidelity in others, appreciates it in general theory, but it’s never been a driving principle in his life.

With Arthur, however, exclusivity had become a necessity. He guarded his place at Arthur’s side with fanatic jealousy, and he’s never once considered looking elsewhere for his pleasure.

Which is why he regards his current dining companion and feels gutted by shame.

It’s been almost two months, but Eames is still in New York, waiting. Waiting without word, without hope, but still here where he said he would be. In that respect, at least, he’s been faithful.

He didn’t expect how hard it would be, being alone again. The majority of his life has been spent alone, isolated in turns by abuse, insecurity, mistrust, and indifference. Always alone, but rarely lonely. It could be that he’s lost the knack of it, suddenly dependent on another’s presence, though he finds it positively hateful that any one person could make him that vulnerable. Even if that that person is Arthur.

Arthur, who convinced him that love truly was a many-splendored thing. Arthur, who broke his heart and his trust in the same day.

Eames has never felt as betrayed and broken as he did that day, watching Arthur destroy everything they had been building between them and feeling helpless to stop it from happening. Even that nightmarish day with Declan didn’t hurt this much, didn’t leave him incapable of moving forward.

And, so, here he has stayed in New York, caught in a new form of limbo while his longing for, and resentment towards, Arthur grows exponentially with every endless hour. Ultimately driving him to this final act of desperation.

“More wine, baby?”

Eames’s gut reaction is to recoil from the loving endearment. He musters up a smile, instead. “Thank you, but no.”

His “date” beams back with an impish grin and tops off his own wineglass to the brim. “More for me, then. Though I’m counting on you to make sure I get to bed at the end of the night,” the innuendo comes complete with a playful wink and a flash of dimples.

In other circumstances, the combination might have sent his pulse racing with more than just lust. Then again, in other—better—circumstances, he would have been having this conversation with the genuine article. Not a cheap fabrication.

It’s not the first time he’s kept company with a projection of Arthur. In early days especially, while making his way in the budding extraction industry, Eames often found himself visited by the specter of the man he has always considered his dreamshare Yoda. There’s even been occasions when the projection stepped in as emergency sub-security, saving Eames from a job gone sour—back in the days before he had the real Arthur there to cover his ass.

So, while this isn’t the first time he’s interacted with a projection of Arthur, it is the first time he’s consciously affected the projection’s construction. As a forger—the first forger, if he may say so himself—it’s a simple enough trick for him to take his ingrained memory of Arthur and apply a few changes.

The lines on that beloved face are from grinning too widely, not scowling through life. Those beautiful brown eyes are lit with uncomplicated joy—something Eames has never witnessed in reality but has imagined far too many times.

Physically, he’s the perfect replication of the real man. He smiles with Arthur’s mouth, moans with Arthur’s voice. But beyond that, the projection veers off course. This version of Arthur is charming and open, laughs easily and doesn’t hesitate to share his thoughts. He’s charming, warm, and happy. He’s everything Eames has always wished Arthur to be, for both of their benefits.

And Eames is going to be ill if he sits there a minute longer.

It’s literally the work of a thought to get rid of the restaurant setting and romantic dinner for two. End scene, fade to black. But the projection lingers, a small, distressed frown marring his brow. “Eames? What are you doing?”

He closes his eyes against the sight. Never again will he be able to reject any form of Arthur without a pang in his heart. But he can’t stay in this cozy little scene any longer. “Nothing for you to worry about, pet. Run along now.”

When he opens his eyes, he’s left alone in a room made of liquid walls; the mirror-like surfaces reflect his image with rippling undertones, hundreds of small changes occurring between one glance and the next. Dark hair then, now short and light. Thicker around the waist. Tattoos coming and going. A boyish smile, a thug’s furled brow. The reflection he sees is always mostly right, but never entirely accurate.

Much like the projection he just banished.

He can sympathize a little better, now, with the hopeless need that must have driven Cobb to carry a facsimile of his dead wife in his head. There’s a cold comfort, seeing that familiar face, hearing that voice. But sympathy and acceptance are far apart. He doesn’t know how Cobb endured a soulless replication for as long as he did, how that perversion didn’t eat at his heart every time he looked upon it.

Eames never met the late Mrs. Cobb, but from what Arthur’s told him, she was a glorious woman that didn’t deserve to be relegated to an embittered phantom.

Gazing into those mirrored walls, he watches the ripples churn and settle into a new image. A forge of Arthur he created years ago, when they had first started working together regularly. Younger than he is now, although not much has changed about Arthur’s appearance over the years. Same slicked back hair, same belligerent stare and expensive shirts. But the man he sees in the mirror is no better a copy than the projection had been. Missing is the secretive smile that curls Arthur’s lips after a late night of lovemaking. Gone is the protective cant of narrow shoulders and the smoldering heat in those dark eyes.

But can he make it feel the same? Or close enough, at least?

It’s probably the worse idea he’s ever had—pathetic, disturbing even—but he isn’t going to let that stop him. In a blink, his clothes are gone, leaving bare the trim, pale body he’s spent weeks fantasizing about.

And then Eames does what he does best. He remakes himself.

He loosens up his hold on the forge and lets it ripple and shift the way his own reflection had. Like the roulette wheel skipping over endless outcomes. When the image finally stills, his heart jumps up into his throat.

Elegant hands with the nails bitten down too short. The dark lines and swirls of his tattoos winding over a body that’s too lean and rangy for the muscle it carries. His short, disobedient hair with Arthur’s raven coloring. His imperfect smile, Arthur’s compelling eyes.

Those eyes haunt him, always have. He stares, feeling the weight of that gaze, and he runs those beautiful hands over the amalgamation of his body, tracing across inked patterns on his chest and up that long neck.

This is something he’s never done before—never tried, never even considered. It shouldn’t have worked. Essentially holding two forges at once instead of turning himself over entirely to one identity… It’s antithetical to everything he’s believed to be true about forging.

Eames knows the only reason why it works now is because it’s Arthur. It’s _them_.

He looks at his—their—reflection, at this seamless blending with the man that might as well be a physical part of him. It’s fascinating. Enthralling. There’s something to the combination of Arthur and himself, in one form, that heats his blood. Makes him hard.

He drags those hands down his body. The cock in his grip feels achingly familiar, uncut but longer than his natural self. Even in this, he’s able to make Arthur and himself one, and he just needs… needs to feel Arthur’s touch, to see him…

Eames drops to his knees so that he can fuck up into his fist, his other hand coming around to massage his balls. The heat spikes, flaring out from the base of his spine, and he pulls harder and tighter at his shaft. Bringing on that spark of pain that makes Arthur gasp so perfectly. There’s no finesse here, no interest in drawing the game out, just a rush to feel the wave of orgasm crash over him.

Through it all, he watches in the mirror, lost in the dark, dilated eyes and the thick lips split open on panted breaths. He adds a twist at the end of his stroke, and that’s just the push he needs to bring himself off, crying out with Arthur’s voice as the pleasure breaks over him with enough force to shatter the dream.

 

 

He comes back to reality lying on Arthur’s bed. In Arthur’s house, with Arthur’s PASIV device stuck into his arm and a sticky mess in his lap.

Waking up alone—again—has quite the dampening effect on his afterglow. The pleasure fades quickly, little more than a faint tingle in his belly by the time he unhooks himself and packs the PASIV back up into its case. Feeling like he just sidestepped a bout of insanity, his mind circles and flinches from memories of the dream. It was stupid. So stupid of him to overindulge like that. And now his thoughts are plagued by dark eyes.

His mood deteriorates, dropping deep into the morose funk that led him to that asinine stunt in the first place. He barely has the energy to drag his clothes off and tug the corner of the blanket over himself.

And as he lays there, all he can think about is how everything fell apart.

 


	2. The Afterlife is Poorly Scored

April

Madrid, Spain

 

The hardest part about being in love is letting himself enjoy it.

Life with Arthur over the last year has been a sort of happiness that Eames never believed he could have before Arthur. _Arthur_ has turned out to be something Eames never believed he could have. He’s sweet and vulnerable, incredibly thoughtful in the simplest (and therefore best) of ways, and he’s wholeheartedly dedicated to their relationship.

Plus, the sex is beyond amazing. Eames is honestly surprised that he can still get it up on a regular basis after the number of brain-melting orgasms Arthur keeps wringing out of him.

Being in love with Arthur is fantastic.

So, naturally, Eames waits for it to all go to hell.

Not purposefully, of course. No, this creeping fear is far more insidious than that. Like worms slithering along the back of his mind until he forgets what it’s like to live without worry.

He’s been here once before, been led into feeling secure and comfortable, only to have that complacency torn from him in one of the worst ways. He had promised himself, then, that he would never let his guard down again. Like he did with Declan.

Fucking Declan. For years he’s been able to exorcise all thoughts of that boy, only to lose grip now that he’s on the edge of happiness. Things he thought he’s forgotten now pushing up to the forefront. Good memories and bad washing over him at the oddest moments.

_A lazy afternoon in front of the telly. Hand on his leg. A grasping fumble at his flies._

He does his best to avoid thinking about _that_ day, distracting himself with work, the gym, or Arthur’s perky behind anytime whispers of _that day_ slip around the edges of his mind.

Until the distractions stop working.

_The drugs in his system prevent his voice from working. Declan isn’t listening anyway._

It starts with a gorgeous morning, the room soft with early light and a deliciously cool breeze sneaking in through the open window. Eames lazes about in bed and debates the merits of joining Arthur in the shower. He loves showering with Arthur—slick skin under his tongue when he licks water off of Arthur’s shoulder blades, and the way Arthur patiently allows Eames to play with his shampoo-frothed hair while discussing their plans for the day—but he’s still not quite awake, and the thought of dozing just a tad longer is too tempting to ignore.

He rolls over onto his stomach and smothers himself with Arthur’s pillow. Oxygen deprivation is a worthy sacrifice to make in exchange for the spicy-crisp scents of Burberry and overpriced hair gel.

Feeling relaxed and largely pleased with life, Eames lets his mind drift from one random thought to another. Haircuts, breakfast, dill pickles, and Tesco. And somehow his mind trips onto a half-forgotten path, a string of memories from his youth.

He thinks about those years after his father disowned him, the rootless free-for-all that his life became. Staying out all night long, wired on drugs and possibilities, before coming back to a friend’s house and sleeping the sunlight away. At the time, he believed he was living life to the fullest, had thought that buying posh liquor and meeting a new patch of strangers every night was a grand adventure.

Christ, he’d been such an idiotic child. Naïve. Trusting. Vulnerable.

_The ratty old sofa becomes a brick wall at Bryce’s back, preventing escape. Hands and teeth tearing at him. And Bryce doesn’t think—can’t think._

_Nauseating touches and oppressive weight. The burning sting of parallel scratches across his left hip. Oily shame._

_A fist across the jaw._

_Desperation. Panic. Just make it stop._

_Hold that monster down before it can ever get the jump on him again._

The shower cuts off. Eames jolts fully awake—was he sleeping, he doesn’t remember falling asleep—the abrupt change in ambient noise as good as a claxon call to his paranoia-trained senses.

He lies motionless, muscles aching with tension, heart thudding a heavy percussion to the soft sounds of Arthur stepping out of the stall and drying off.

Arthur.

The unexpected star at the center of his orbit. His beautiful darling, whose own damage lies quietly beneath a calm surface. Because Arthur is strong—the strongest person Eames has ever met—and if Arthur can find a way to live on and be happy despite his fucked up past, so can he.

Arthur will banish these feelings for him, even if he doesn’t know it.

Eames locks down that part of his mind that’s snared in the memories, wraps it tight with a thick layer of _don’t go there._ That isn’t who he’s going to be, not today.

Today, now, he isn’t Bryce. Never again will he be that sad, victimized boy. He’s Eames.

And Eames is going to get out of bed and harass his lover while all that lush, silky hair is still wet and adorably floppy.

 

 

 

The bathroom interlude turns out to be temporary, if sweet, reprieve. Restlessness kicks in as the day rolls on. They’ve just finished up a job in Zaragoza, and Arthur is experimenting with the concept of time off. And normally he would be pleased about that fact. But today, of all days, that means Eames has plenty of time on his hands to try and spend not-thinking.

He’s antsy. Arthur notices—of course he does—but doesn’t call him on it, and Eames can’t decide if he’s relieved or frustrated by the lack of questions. He doesn’t know how to make these feelings crawl back into the deep well that they’ve lurked in so long. Or why everything has to start falling apart now, when he has something precious and perfect building with Arthur.

Evening comes after an eternity of uncomfortable silences and tense conversations. Eames makes it through dinner by nattering incessantly about a new theatre production he wants to see, providing they stay in town long enough. Arthur nods and asks thoughtful questions, making it clear that he’ll gladly go with Eames to the show even though he obviously has no interest in the play.

It should have made him happy. Instead, dinner sits like sand in his stomach.

Arthur offers to clean up, letting Eames escapes into the lounge. He drops down on to the sofa with a heavy sigh, relieved to have a moment alone to pull his shit together. _Just a few hours_ , he consoles himself. He only needs to keep up the normalcy act for a few more hours, and maybe by tomorrow this edgy pressure will have moved on.

He can hope, anyway.

He must lose track of time because Arthur is suddenly on the sofa beside him, and he fails to mask his startled jump. And the concerned look he receives makes it clear that today’s descent into madness has been anything but subtle.

“You’re twitchy today,” Arthur points out gently. “You okay?”

Eames forces a smirk onto his face, puts his arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “Yeah, love, I’m all good. Just a bit restless, is all. Guess I’m not used to all this free time,” he teases. “My boyfriend’s a bit of a slave driver, keeps me hopping.”

Arthur smiles and leans in, pressing him back against the sofa. Eames feels his throat tighten. His heart kicks up. “I think I can help with that restless energy,” Arthur says and reaches for Eames’s belt buckle.

He flinches away from the touch.

Arthur pauses, hand still outstretched between them. And in his sudden stillness, that traitorous cringe resonates all the more. Eames begins to panic underneath his frozen smile, especially when an unnamable darkness passes through Arthur’s eyes.

“Sure nothing’s wrong?” Arthur asks in a flat voice.

Eames shakes his head and toys with the buttons of Arthur’s shirt in a suggestive—and hopefully distracting—manner. “Nothing at all. Like you said, just a little jumpy today.” He presses a soft kiss against the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “Now, where were we?”

He doesn’t give Arthur time to respond, moving in for another kiss. And it helps—turning his attention to Arthur’s touch, his scent. The beloved familiarity of everything _Arthur_ grounds him in the here and now, lets the haunting shadows fade into the background.

Now, if only Arthur would cooperate… Eames can feel Arthur’s lingering tension even as he responds to the kiss. And, frankly, it’s messing with his plan.

Arthur pulls away, frown lines in place. “Eames—”

But he doesn’t want to hear it. Whatever _it_ is. Words aren’t what he needs right now. “Hush, you. I’m busy.”

He pulls Arthur back in close and pours as much intent and feeling into the kiss as he can. All his frustrations, the longing and the fear, are translated into hunger and need. With all of his focus on the taste of Arthur on his tongue, the heat and power of that beguiling body against his, he can shove the haunting shadows far down into oblivion.

Eventually he feels the tension in Arthur’s shoulders shift into a different kind of urgency. One that matches the desperation riding beneath his skin. And Eames takes that as permission to drag them both to the floor and divest Arthur of his clothes.

****


	3. Lucky You Don't Have to Wake Up

June

New York, USA

 

After leaving Belfast, Eames doesn’t call Arthur. For one, he spends several consecutive hours on airplanes and in crowded airports and assumes Arthur is doing the same. Not the right conditions for continuing their… disagreement.

And even as he settles into Arthur’s safe house—a pretentious, brick-faced townhouse in Brooklyn—he doesn’t call. And Arthur doesn’t call him. Which, yes, peeves him a fair bit. If Arthur wants to pretend that he doesn’t have to explain himself, to apologize, then Eames is very much looking forward to educating him otherwise.

That fit of anger doesn’t last more than a few hours, though, and Eames acknowledges that Arthur is wise in giving him a little space before making contact. What happened in Belfast was… ugly, and it’s going to be a good long while before Eames is ready to gloss over everything with a smile. So, yes, some breathing room is probably the prudent, mature thing for them until they’re both ready to talk this out.

Once Arthur gets to New York, when they can sit down and talk things through calmly—that will be soon enough to resolve this.

Night falls—and keeps on falling. Eames isn’t waiting up, really. He just can’t sleep. Jetlag, of course, and probably some lingering adrenaline from the botched Gibson job and his… talk, with Arthur. He doesn’t mean to sit up all night. It just happens.

And Arthur doesn’t come.

At some point during the long night, Eames does give in and call. To find out what flight Arthur is on. To make sure he got out of Belfast alright. To figure out when in hell Arthur plans on arriving in New York.

He’s worried that something might have gone wrong after he left Northern Ireland. Arthur’s contingency plans are usually rock solid, but it’s possible that Gibson’s temper and pride won out over his paternal instinct. And Eames is not one for putting much store in paternal instinct.

But when Arthur fails to answer a single one of his calls and doesn’t respond to any of his texts… then he lets himself be angry again. Yes, he said things he regrets, which he has every intention of admitting. But Eames is not entirely ready to let go of the fact that all of this is Arthur’s fault. It was Arthur’s misguided actions that brought this whole situation on them. So where does Arthur get off, avoiding the responsibility of dealing with it?

The anger carries him for a good week, distracting himself with too much beer and maliciously rearranging Arthur’s kitchen. But the anger is only ever a thin veneer over more worry.

Begrudgingly, earnestly, Eames taps into his resources within the industry. They may not be as robust or sophisticated as Arthur’s intel network, but Eames has his own ways of getting information. And without stating anything explicit or asking too detailed of questions, he’s able to verify that Arthur hasn’t signed up with any teams, nor is he dead in a ditch or being tortured in a warehouse somewhere. That last is something that would certainly hit all the dreamshare airwaves, especially with an amateur like Gibson calling the shots.

Relief gives way to betrayal, a self-righteous feeling that lasts Eames for the rest of the month. Wherever Arthur is, he’s there by choice.

The lying bastard.

Arthur said they would meet in New York. That they would talk. He said he would be here. Otherwise, Eames would never have gotten on that plane. At least, he likes to believe so.

He and Arthur have been through too much, seen too much of the world together to not work everything out at the end. Eames believes that with all his heart, which is why he’s here waiting where he’s supposed to be, while Arthur fucks about and risks ruining what they have.

When wounded indignation inevitably gives out after two weeks, Eames finally breaks down and calls Cobb. Surely, wherever Arthur is, Cobb will know.

It chafes Eames to admit it, but Dominic Cobb is probably still the man that knows Arthur best. All the time they’ve spent together, with Arthur basically shadowing Cobb’s every step while dragging that man out of the depths of insanity. And Arthur would never own up to it, but Eames used to detect hints of hero worship back in the old days, when Arthur was Cobb’s obedient little soldier. There’s no way Arthur hasn’t told his old mentor how to find him.

The hard part, of course, will be convincing Cobb to talk.

Eames plots and schemes, devising a spider web of conversational threads depending on what Cobb’s responses turn out to be. And it all falls into nothing when Cobb answers the phone saying, _“Eames, finally. Where’s Arthur? Put him on the phone. And tell him to stop dodging my calls.”_

The crush of disappointment is staggering. Only then does he realize how much he had hoped… “Sorry, no, got to go.”

_“What? Wait, you called me.”_

“Yes, yes. Changed my mind.”

_“Eam—”_

He hangs up, feeling helpless and hating it. With Cobb proving to be a dead end, Eames has to accept that he has no way of finding Arthur. All he can do is wait. And hope that Arthur will come to find him.

This revelation brings desperation tempered by despondency. What reason does Arthur have to come? When Eames made it so clear, the horrible things he thought about Arthur that day. And is that all that his love is worth? Conditional acceptance? Is that the best he can do?

Part of him is tempted to ditch New York and start tracking Arthur down, one safe house after another, until he finds his man. The need to _do_ is powerful, nearly drowning out the quiet voice urging caution. But New York is where he’s supposed to be. New York was the promise. In the end, he can’t bring himself to leave the city. Can, in fact, barely handle leaving the townhouse.

There is one, final recourse open to him. Something he’s hesitant… truthfully, frightened to try. Only the possibility of losing Arthur frightens him more.

The call is answered on the first ring, before Eames has actually worked out what he plans to say, leaving him to stammer through the greeting.

_“Eames. It’s great to hear from you.”_

“Thank you. You too, Mr. King.”

_“Eames, c’mon. We’ve talked about this.”_

He smiles a little, even though there’s no one to see it. “Sorry. Mason.”

_“Better. How are things? Still in Spain?”_

Which answers Eames’s question before he can even think of how to ask it. Arthur’s parents don’t know where he is. Another lost hope. “Not—no. Just arrived in New York, actually.”

_“Stateside! That’s great. Maybe you’ll swing over our way if you have the chance.”_

Damn. He should have expected that; Arthur’s parents have been increasingly straightforward with their invitations to visit. But his ordinarily smooth deflections crumble apart. “I… we, uh…”

 _“Been a while since we’ve heard from you boys.”_ The change is Mason’s voice is subtle. Careful. _“Hope everything’s okay?”_

And Eames is torn. He doesn’t want to continue this conversation. But, then again, he longs to unleash all his thoughts and worries on a sympathetic ear. “Yes, um. I suppose that’s why I’m calling. Arthur…” He pauses to clear his throat. “Arthur. See, he…”

 _“Eames,”_ This time Mason’s voice is calm and solid, cutting through Eames’s bullshit. _“Just tell me. Is he hurt?”_

“No,” he rushes to assure, but the guilt over speaking half-truths to Arthur’s father pushes him into explaining. “I don’t believe he is, no. But the truth is, I haven’t seen or spoken to Arthur for a month.” Oh, Christ, but saying it aloud hurts.

Mason’s side of the call falls silent for a short spell. Eames takes a deep breath.

_“Did you two break up?”_

The words— _those_ words—shake him. “I… I think so,” he admits in a shamed whisper. “I’m not—we didn’t—it’s…”

_“Easy, son. Take your time. Tell me what happened.”_

Eames takes another centering breath. “We argued. It was… bad. It was definitely bad. But I never said… we were supposed to reconnect here and talk about it. Only he never showed. And it’s been weeks,” he explains. “I don’t know where he is. And he won’t answer my calls. No one knows where he is.”

_“But you think he’s safe?”_

“I… Yeah. Yeah, I do. There are—if something had happened, I would have found out.”

 _“Okay.”_ There’s a drawn out sigh, and Eames is sorry for causing Mason to worry, for not being able to offer more than his own eager belief that nothing dire has befallen his son. _“So, he’s probably out there somewhere, lying low and refusing to talk to you because he’s bad with emotions.”_

Eames startles, frowns. It doesn’t sit well when anyone criticizes Arthur, even if he rather agrees. “No, he—“

 _“It’s okay,”_ Mason cuts in, gently and with the slightest tinge of humor. As if he’s smiling. _“I understand what he’s like. Not that I’m absolving you of responsibility, of course. That’s not how these things work. Can I ask what you argued about?”_

“Um…” Eames stalls, thoughts racing and tumbling over themselves. “Well, it was a work thing. He, uh… made a decision that I don’t… That is to say, I understand why he did it, but it’s not something that I… Ethically, you know? Morally. I just don’t think it was right. But I never meant him to think I don’t trust him. Or that I don’t… And it’s not really about _him_ , to be honest. I know what he’s been through, why he’s… And that doesn’t—I mean, I love him. Of course, I love him. And I would never ask him to change who he is, I swear. That’s not—fuck, that’s not what I want. But maybe that’s what I made him believe? Like I don’t love him just the way he is? But I can’t help the way I—and I don’t know how to convince him that it doesn’t change what I feel for him. Especially since the stubborn little shit won’t even answer his sodding phone.” At the tail-end of his broken rant, he remembers who he’s talking to. “Er, sorry.”

_“Quite alright. Okay, let me see if I’ve got this. Arthur did something you consider objectionable. Which isn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for you, but you don’t want to compromise your own values by condoning his actions. Only, instead of saying so, you left him thinking you see him differently as a result of said actions. And now he’s avoiding you instead of working to resolve this.”_

“That’s… yeah. That’s a fair summary,” he admits with a wince. But also with a fresh spark of hope. Maybe things aren’t as fucked up and broken as he thinks. He chucks pride aside, relieved to have someone he can turn to in this. “What do I do, Mason? How do I fix this?”

_“Well, okay. Let me ask you a question, first.”_

“Alright.”

_“Whatever it was that Arthur did, can you live with it? And I mean truly, for the rest of your lives, can you accept that he did it and never hold it against him?”_

Eames’s instinctive response is an absolute _yes._ But this isn’t the time for knee-jerk answers. And there is one lingering fear that holds him back. “What if he does it again?”

 _“Then you’ll be back in this situation, and you’ll have to work through the problem all over again. Or,”_ Mason stresses his next words with audible caution, _“you decide now that you don’t want to risk that kind of struggle.”_

This much, at least, Eames is certain of. “Arthur is worth a struggle.”

_“Of course, he is. But not everyone wants to be in a relationship with struggles. And that’s their right. It’s okay to decide you want something different. You just have to be honest about it. With him and especially with yourself.”_

It’s not something Eames expects to hear, and he doesn’t reply immediately. He understands what Mason is telling him, but it isn’t that simple. Is it? Can he really choose to just let it go? “I don’t—I can’t…”

_“Give it some thought. Don’t decide too quickly. When something is important, it’s good to take your time.”_

Which sounds all very wise and logical, except… “I miss him.”

_“Ah, son… I’m sorry. Sorry that you’re going through this. But you have to do what’s best for the both of you. And, unfortunately, no one else can tell you what that is. Only you and Arthur know the answer to that. So you take as much time as you need to figure out what that is.”_

Eames considers those words for a moment.  “You’re right. I… yeah, I know you’re right. Just easier when someone else is saying it, I guess.”

_“Yes, well, that’s what fathers are for.”_

Tears are in his eyes before he can brace against them. In his experience, no—this hasn’t been what fathers are for. And Mason’s unreserved generosity of heart means more than he can articulate. So he settles for words that are basic but genuine. “Thank you, Mason.”

_“No thanks needed, but you’re welcome. You’re always welcome, Eames.  I hope you know that.”_

“Even if…” Only he can’t finish the thought.

 _“Even if.”_ There’s no equivocation in Mason’s voice. Just strength and sincerity, so very reminiscent of his son. _“In fact, I’ll be expecting a call from you soon, find out how you’re doing. Regardless of what does or doesn’t happen with Arthur. Understood?”_

Eames bites down his lip, reining in the urge to fall apart into another blubbering mess. These King men… could he ever go back to existing without them in his life? “Yes, sir.”

_"Good. Now maybe get some rest. You sound like shit.”_

 


	4. I'm Sick of Immortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to dasyatidae for the tattoo assist. Blame me for any inaccuracies.

August

New York, USA

 

The first thing Eames thinks about when he wakes up late in the afternoon is the burn of dark eyes watching him as he comes. That heady gleam implying ownership over his pleasure. Demanding his complete surrender to the almost symbiotic bond between them.

A week ago, even a day ago, the futility of that thought would have been enough to keep him in bed, wasting the day away with fitful sleep. Today, however, he prowls around the house in a manic fever born from too many emotions spiraling within him at once. And the one question that keeps spinning out to the forefront.

What the hell is he going to do?

Mason’s advice has never been far from his mind over the course of these last few weeks. It’s taken him some time to accept that the next move is his; Arthur has made his position clear, and if they’re going to move out of this stasis, it will be up to Eames to set the direction.

As far as comfort levels go, this pushes Eames well beyond his. Ever the drifter, the mimic, the criminal for hire, he’s not one for steering anyone’s destiny but his own. And even then, he must admit, he’s been far more in the habit of reacting to his circumstances than orchestrating them.

That’s always been Arthur’s forte.

If the fate of their relationship rests in his hands… Eames needs to figure out what he wants that to look like. Unfortunately, after weeks spent in nervous inactivity and morose debate, he’s formed more questions than answers.

Is this something they can come back from? Or were they always going to end up here? And, if that’s true, maybe Eames had been looking for a reason to cut loose, a reason to call it quits. Why, then, does the idea of life without Arthur shut his mind down with panic?

These indecisive thoughts have been tormenting him since his first talk with Mason, and he’s been no closer to resolution despite the mental acrobats. Until last night.

Last night was a mistake in many ways. The projection… it was shameful, trying to pave over his broken heart with a tawdry replica. But it was also the slap in the face he needed, a reminder of what he’s been missing.

He doesn’t want a sanitized version of Arthur. He wants the fierce lethality of cutting edges. He wants the dark well of emotion that make Arthur so astonishingly loving. And he wants the soft smiles and dimpled grins that only come out for him. He wants to bask in Arthur’s happiness and luxuriate in the knowledge that he is the cause. He wants to feel the weight of Arthur’s gaze, tracking him through the room with possessive care.

He’s hit with a flash memory of the hybrid forge, that intoxicating union of his body with Arthur’s, and shivers. Yes, that’s what he wants. That’s the destiny he would choose for himself.

He and Arthur have spent too long being together while still holding themselves back. Eames realizes this, now. Arthur’s barriers, his own secrets… like two paths running side by side but never converging. Yes, he’s only ever tried to protect himself from being hurt, but holding himself separate from Arthur’s moral compass has only led to greater pain. And protecting himself isn’t worth it, if this is the result.

If they’re going to move forward together, then it has to truly be as one. All in, no holds barred. Just the thought scares him shitless, but he knows—this is what he wants.

Of course, knowing _what_ he wants and _how_ to get it are two different buckets of fish, entirely. Especially if he can’t even talk with Arthur to share his revelation. Mason and Jackie haven’t fared any better. Arthur is still lost in the wind, for all intents and purposes, and Eames is still hesitant to leave New York.

The day is spent fretting over his dilemma without solution. He makes mimosas with Arthur’s hidden stash of prosecco and reorganizes the kitchen cupboards—by color, this time. And yet, hours later, Eames is ready to admit that he hasn’t the first clue as to how to reach Arthur. So he grabs his wallet, puts on shoes for the first time in far too long, and heads out in search of his favorite form of meditation.

Tattoos aren’t a passion or a vanity for Eames. And none of his tattoos have special meanings, at least not in the conventional sense. It’s not the design that matters to him, it’s the process. Whenever there’s a weighty matter on his mind or an emotion he can’t sort out, he puts himself under the needle to burn through the confusion. A little pain to clear the mind.

Usually the design is quickly chosen, either selected at random out of a book or quickly sketched with more regard to symbolism than aesthetics. Today, however, his ability to decide on anything is locked up in the multitude of emotions running through him. Excitement and determination are crowded in with nerves and doubt, making it impossible for him to settle on a clear image.

That last batch of mimosas probably didn’t help, either.

“Can I help you with anything?”

He turns to meet the welcoming smile of one of the artists, a vision of contrast with dark ink on pale skin. Eames stares a little too long at the eerily lifelike tattoos—a trio of stipple art stingrays—curling up their arm and underneath the sleeve of a plain black shirt. Maybe he’s not quite sober enough to actually do this right now.

He snaps his gaze up to a pair of brown eyes now observing him with suspicion. “Yeah. I mean, thank you, no. Just haven’t decided what I want yet.”

“Sure. Let me know if you have questions.”

“Thank you,” he says again.

Those eyes… Not as dark as Arthur’s, but still recognizable. Similar shape, same analytical caution that says _I’m not buying your bullshit, I’m just humoring you until you’re someone else’s problem._

An idea niggles at the back of his mind.

“I’ll be back,” he announces, spinning out of the shop without waiting for a response.

It takes him three days and two sleepless nights to finish the sketch. The first few attempts don’t go well, don’t capture the right feeling. But, finally, bleary-eyed and jacked up on instant coffee, he’s got it: Arthur, head turned just to the side. Eyes sharp with focus, but his lips are quirked ever so slightly with humor and—he realizes now—affection as they banter years-old jokes in the middle of the most serious, high-stakes job of their lives.

Eames remembers looking up at that face, seconds before he’s about to render himself vulnerable to a militarized subconscious, and feeling all his panic and apprehension disappear. He felt no fear, no hesitation over leaving his body, his life, his sanity in Arthur’s capable hands. His trust in Arthur was absolute.

In that moment, Eames was secure in the knowledge that Arthur would do whatever was necessary to keep him—all of them—safe. Giving him the opportunity to do whatever was necessary to make sure they were successful. Between the two of them, no obstacle was unsurmountable.

In that moment, they were one.

He’s back at the tattoo shop that afternoon, after a cat nap and a quick shower, and buys his way into an immediate appointment and a monopoly on the artist’s time.

“You sure about this? Might be better to hit this in a couple of visits.” Today the artist is dressed in a battered tank promoting Roscoe’s House of Chicken N Waffles, revealing another inky nature motif. The pale skin of their shoulders makes the black and sepia-toned tattoos look like flowers cut from aged parchment.

The poetic romance of the thought strikes Eames like an omen. This is right. “I need this. I’ve waited long enough.”

Those flower-patched shoulders shrug. “It’s your skin.”

He makes sure they set him up in front of the mirrored wall so he can watch every second of the process. The hours are long and painful, especially when the needles score along his ribs with unrelenting fire. But he welcomes the pain like a promise, an offering to the gods of love and lost causes. Each line and shade carved into his flesh is a token, permanently inked along his side where he’ll always be able to reach up and caress that ghost of a smile.

“There. That’s all of it.”

Eames preens in front of the mirror, admiring the work. Every movement sets his nerves aflame, but he can’t help but twist a little more than necessary, reveling in the agony. This is what certainty feels like, the pain a benediction of his commitment.

“So?” the artist asks with a knowing smirk. “Is he worth the extra thousand?”

“Oh, yes,” he gushes, gaze fixed on the dark fan of Arthur’s lashes. “He’s always worth it. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He’s still buzzed when he gets home, riding the wave of endorphins and mental clarity. So, naturally, he calls Arthur, wanting to tell Arthur’s voicemail all about the new tattoo.

He plans the message he wants to leave, the words he wants to say. He won’t have a lot of time, and there’s so much he wants to share. The tattoo, his talks with Mason, the _arrabiata_ recipe he tried last week that almost burned his—

_“Hey.”_

Eames jerks and nearly drops the phone. But all the frenzied energy he’s being carrying under his—now raw—skin settles down at the first sound of that voice. “Arthur.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "I Want to Kill You Like They Do In the Movies" by by Marilyn Manson.
> 
> Next up on our playlist: "My Skin" by Natalie Merchant
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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